It's a Wonderful Life, Martin Crieff
by jenny starseed
Summary: Martin Crieff thinks the world is a better place without him. That is until a guardian angel appears to show him a terrible alternate reality of MJN Air without Martin Crieff. A re-telling of It's a Wonderful Life.
1. Chapter 1

AN: A Christmas fic posted in April. A Bit odd, but the nature of WIPs are resistant to writing things on time. At least for me they do. The fic is finished and I'm slowly editing and posting the chapters. I hope you enjoy it.

Thanks to pb-jwaffles for beta-ing this fic waaay back in March of last year. She caught a lot of my terrible newbie writer mistakes and gave me wonderful suggestions. And thanks to Teyke for a last minute look at the first chapter of this fic

* * *

The holidays were always very stressful for Martin. His family wasn't very materialistic, but it was important to Martin to keep up the facade that he was making a decent wage as a charter captain. A decent wage that would pay for the usual gift cards, useless pretty things and food stuffs that would quietly signal, "Not poor! Doing well!" to his family. He squirreled away as much as he could during the year, but he always made just enough to pay his bills and it didn't leave room for frivolous things like Christmas presents. He was working extra hours with his van to pay for the dismal presents he planned to buy for his family. It didn't help that MJN Air was so busy during the holiday season. It was amazing the amount of last minute cargo flights and desperately stranded passengers Christmas inspired. He barely, if ever, got his twelve hour rest between flights; he was usually attempting to fit in van jobs in between them. It was playing havoc with his sleep patterns, especially when crossing time zones during cargo flights and the subsequent jetlag that came with it.

This was how he ended up performing the most harrowing landing of his career. He missed a key instruction from air traffic control and almost veered off the runway. They landed on the grass field of Fitton airfield, the landing wheels were smoking and damaged. Carolyn was furious. She had to pay for the repairs for the wheels and it was another expense MJN Air could barely afford right now. She almost threatened to dock Martin's pay before she remembered that she didn't pay him at all. Douglas gave a meaningful look to Carolyn, which shut Carolyn up immediately.

Martin sat in the porta-cabin, at the rickety cheap table that he spent many hours filling out flight plans and paperwork that Douglas always leaves for Martin to do. Carolyn and Arthur had left and Martin was expecting some privacy to collect himself under the pretense of getting a head start on the paper work for the damages on Gerti. No such luck. A cup of tea appeared in front of him. He looked up to find Douglas with an odd expression on his face. Martin realised this was the first time Douglas had expressed open concern for him and it made Martin feel uncomfortable.

"Sorry, this was all we had in the galley. Carolyn doesn't stock much food during such short cargo trips," Douglas explained, sitting down and pushing the plate of biscuits towards Martin. "This comes to our sticky situation. Maybe you can help me out?"

Martin would much rather he had spoken to him sharply. Martin didn't like this quiet sympathy that was so out of character for Douglas. Martin would have preferred if Douglas made snide and teasing remarks for Martin to battle against. It was difficult to hold himself together when there was nothing to fight against. If he had the energy, he would have picked a fight with Douglas who was sitting across him with hobnobs and hot tea. He couldn't even begin to come up with a snappy response.

He sighed into his cup. "What is it, Douglas? Whatever you have to ask, just ask it."

"Well, Captain, you look very knackered for a two-hour cargo flight to Switzerland," began Douglas, sounding like a pompous investigator that Martin hated on TV, "considering we had twenty-four hours of rest between this flight and the last one to Germany. You're not the careless sort. You always got enough sleep in between each flight. You're absolutely adamant about it. I don't understand how you failed to miss those instructions by ATC. Have you taken up any late night hobbies I should be concerned about?"

"Very good, Inspector Morse. Please tell me your conclusions. What do you think?"

"I frankly don't have much of a clue."

Martin laughed but nothing was funny about this. "No, I suppose you don't."

Douglas's voice softened. "Martin, is everything alright? I know MJN doesn't pay well—"

"It pays nothing," said Martin, trying very hard to keep his emotions in check. He didn't like the way his voice wobbled at the word "nothing."

"Yes, that. Are you having financial trouble?"

"I always have financial trouble, Douglas. You wouldn't understand," said Martin. He looked down at his cup of tea. He remembered there was nothing to eat at his flat. He couldn't even afford tea this month. This sad plate of tea and biscuits would be his dinner tonight. He felt his control slipping when he unintentionally admitted, "I don't know how long I can continue like this. Carolyn will likely fire me after this incident and I-I don't know...maybe I unconsciously wanted-"

"To crash the plane?"

Martin shot Douglas a horrified look. "No!" exclaimed Martin. After a pause he continued in a small voice. "No. Never that. I wonder if I should be fired. I'm not very competent at my life...I mean, my job. I can't imagine what I would do without flying, I wouldn't want..." Martin rambled, giving voice to feelings of failure that he never put much attention to when he was always so busy surviving. For a moment, the emotions were so overwhelming, he forgot Douglas was there and he was just talking to himself. "I mean, it would be horrific to not fly. It's miserable with and without flying. But my life without flying...I just don't think I would want to..."

Martin trembled when he mumbled the last few words, letting them trail into ambiguity when he realised where his thoughts were heading. He hoped Douglas hadn't caught his words, but Douglas looked appalled and determined. "What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"It's nothing," he said. His voice broke oddly over the lie and he found, to his horror, that his face was wet. Something had broken inside of him and the fog of shock and fatigue could no longer shield him from the terrible thoughts that threatened to smother him. He was an unsafe pilot who endangered the safety of his passengers and crew. He risked his life and the lives of others to buy Christmas gifts for his family so they wouldn't shame him out of his career choice this Christmas. Who was he fooling? His career as a pilot was definitely over and Martin wanted nothing more than to go home and never leave his flat. He felt absolutely sick about his unthinking stupidity and the inevitability that Carolyn will fire him.

Martin heard Douglas say his name. He looked up at Douglas, his grey eyes wide and panicky. Douglas tried to calm Martin by grasping his arm. Martin flung Douglas's hand away. His career was over and it was the only thing he could think of as he put quickly put on his coat. He fled out of the porta-cabin and numbly drove home, his face still wet with shed tears.

* * *

Martin opened the door to his claustrophobic flat. The flat only had enough room for his bed, a small table and drawers for his clothes. When he had first moved in, he had painted it a tasteful shade of light blue that reminded him of the sunny skies when he flew. This was his first flat and he remembered thinking that this flat would only be temporary. He would pass his CPL exams and get a lucrative job flying with one of the major airlines. He would only live here for three years at most. He'd been here for nine. He looked around and sighed. Life didn't turn out the way he wanted but it was enough that he could come home and go to sleep with the satisfaction that he was doing exactly what he wanted with his life: flying. Now that would be taken away from him because of the stupid mistake he made this afternoon. Carolyn will fire him. She was always going on about how he was always costing her money in incurring landing fees and unnecessary repairs. She couldn't afford to pay him and it was becoming clear to him that he couldn't continue living in this state of poverty. He was thirty-two and he couldn't face his family with his failures. He was unmarried and was barely making ends meet. What was he going to say to Caitlin and Simon's silent and smug disapproval? How could he convince his mother that he could take care of himself as a pilot? He couldn't.

The weight of his failure depressed him. He took out the batteries out of the mobile phone that he could barely afford and ignored the world. He changed out of his uniform and into his night shirt and pyjama trousers and went to bed. He fell into a dreamless sleep. When he woke up, he didn't see the point in doing anything. He knew he was being irresponsible but he was too tired to care. If he wasn't sleeping, he was brooding.

The next day, he got out of bed at 5pm through sheer force of will. He showered, dressed and ate his first proper meal of the day. It was beans on stale toast that the students had left behind before they left for the holidays. He gathered his courage to call Carolyn but only got her answerphone. He left a message, turned off his phone and went back to bed. He calculated how much money he had in his wallet and bank account. He was certain that he was going to be fired and it didn't seem feasible to spend the fifty quid he had saved for Christmas on gifts. And the idea of going shopping, managing the crowds and the pure indecision and anxiety about buying gifts for his whole family for less than fifty quid was overwhelming to him. He pulled the blanket over his head and curled into a ball. He didn't want to deal with his problems anymore. It was all too much for him. He didn't know long he lay there. His miserable thoughts wouldn't leave him alone and by the late evening, he was sure he had nothing to live for after Christmas.

He wasn't thinking straight when he found a bottle of expired paracetamol pills on his night stand. He sat up and carefully took a handful of them. He couldn't help but think he was doing this wrong. He never heard of anyone dying from swallowing a bottle of Paracetamol pills. He needed sleeping pills, but he didn't have any and he didn't know how to get them without a prescription. It didn't matter. He got out of bed and poured himself a glass of water. He put down the glass of water on the night stand, picked up the bottle of paracetamol and carefully poured the pills onto the palm of his hand. He wanted to do it before he lost his nerve. He was glad that he wasn't too much of a burden to anyone. He had no children, no wife and no real job. He tried not to think about his family. He didn't even feel that he knew them anymore after many years of keeping them at a distance.

He was about to swallow the pills when his guardian angel appeared. She held out her hand and introduced herself, "Hello. You must be Martin Crieff. I've been assigned to be your guardian angel."


	2. Chapter 2

The angel appeared with a pop that startled Martin that he dropped his paracetamol. He apologized and clumsily got to his knees to pick up the pills before shaking the angel's outreached hand. The angel could have been one of the agricultural students but he had never seen her before. At least he was fairly sure he hadn't seen her before. She was one of those non-descript, plain-face girls that were crafted to go unnoticed by the masses. She could be someone's girlfriend or somebody's sister that was introduced to you at parties but you could never remember the name of. Even her clothes were forgettable: horn-rimmed glasses, jeans, a blue jumper and a blackberry in her hand. The only recognizable thing was her rude and no non-sense attitude when she rolled her eyes when Martin shook her hand with a pill still stuck to his palm.

"So, you're the first one on my roster today," she said in a non-descript American accent, turning her attention to her Blackberry.

Martin gaped at her. "Roster?"

"You're one of the poor souls who want to kill themselves tonight, am I correct?" she asked, still not looking up from her Blackberry. Martin didn't like her dismissive tone. Who was this stranger making him feel unwelcome in his own flat?

"Excuse me, but this is a private room," he said, using his best authoritative voice. The one he used with naughty children and unruly passengers. "You have no permission to be here."

"Oh I don't doubt that. The Christmas season and no one wants to do what you're about to do in front of an audience," replied the girl, finally putting the Blackberry away. She held out her hand to be shaken, obviously forgetting that she already shook his hand already. "Anyway, my name is Tabitha and I will be your guardian angel for tonight."

"Guardian angel?" repeated Martin, shaking her hand numbly, not knowing what to do.

"And don't ever call me Tabby," she said, squeezing his hand hard to emphasize the point. It made Martin wince before she let go. "I'm your angel, not your best mate or chum or whatever you call your best friend over here. Heaven has sent a red flag against your name, and I'm one of those sorry angels who have to come down here and talk you out of it. Because idiots like you never think of others when you do this, only yourself. And believe me; no one is as useless as they think they are."

"So I haven't succeeded...in...ah..."began Martin, not knowing how he wanted to end that sentence.

"Offing yourself, as you Brits like to call it?" finished Tabitha.

"Yes, that."

"I can't see how you could have. That useless bottle of paracetamol is on the ground. You can't kill yourself with that anyway. Shit, I wasn't supposed to say that, you know, give you tips," she said, catching herself in her mistake. "I'm part of Heaven's Suicide Prevention Team; it would be against our rules. I have a long night ahead of me, you know? We guardian angels often have to work very long hours during this holiday season. People always get so grumpy during the holidays just because they can't see their kids during Christmas or their wife cheated on them. In your case, you've nearly crashed your plane and now you anticipate being jobless and useless for the rest of your life."

"For a guardian angel, you're not a very nice one," remarked Martin peevishly. The shock of having a guardian angel had given way to annoyance.

"No," agreed Tabitha. "I can't say I am. Listen, the Suicide Prevention Team where angels demonstrate their care skills to earn their wings by preventing suicides. It's like a driving test or your CPL test, except it's for angel wings."

"And how many times have you tried to take this angel test?"

Tabitha didn't look like she wanted to say. Martin crossed his arms and stared at her, wordlessly demanding an answer. Eventually she relented. "Twenty-three times."

"Bloody hell."

"I know!" she moaned. "So they sent me to save a pilot who failed his CPL exam four times. Call it Heaven's sense of humour."

"That means," Martin began slowly, "you haven't been able to save twenty-three people. And they've all died?"

"Correct!" she answered cheerfully. It was as though the cheerful tone would diminish or distract Martin from how terrible she was at her job.

Martin didn't know how to feel about that. He hated incompetence, even if it was to his advantage. It was offensive to him to be assigned to such an inept guardian angel even if it meant Martin would surely get his wish to die in peace by the end of the night. His guardian angel talked like a lucky sidekick he had seen in a lot of American television shows, except bossier and maybe a bit intimidating. And Martin really disliked bossy people. He couldn't help but be defensive and contrary as he sat silently while Tabitha was typing furiously on her blackberry again.

"Is this going to be like that American film with Jimmy Stewart?" Martin inquired. "You're going to show me an alternate universe where I never existed?"

"Yup. It's what Frank Capra was sent to do: Make a movie that everyone is familiar with and watches during Christmas so that we angels don't have to explain this process over and over again. But it took years for that film to be popular enough to get it through people's thick heads as to how this angel suicide prevention program works."

"What happens if I decide to kill myself after this grand tour of my life?" Martin asked.

"You die, meet Jean-Pierre, who will give you a very bad smack down for being an idiot," Tabitha snapped. "And will fail to get my wings again. You know how hard it is to manoeuvre around Heaven without wings? It's like going through life on Earth without a driver's license."

"Listen, I'm a thoroughly useless bugger," Martin retorted, suddenly annoyed that his life was nothing but a stepping stone for her to get her wings. "I'm not going to live just so you can have your wings license to move around Heaven."

"Ah! But according to this, you're not a useless bugger," said Tabitha, showing him the screen to her Blackberry. Martin squinted at the squiggly symbols that reminded him of calculus equations done in calligraphy. He was unimpressed. But Tabitha continued, "Apparently, all sorts of things wouldn't have happened if you weren't alive. In fact, God thinks you're a pretty swell guy. He wants you to stay on Earth and do more pilot-y things. Maybe have a kid or two and keep Carolyn from firing Douglas. But we'll get to that later."

She tapped some more on her blackberry, before she glanced up with a smile. Martin didn't smile back.

Tabitha gave a tired sigh. "Listen Mister, I have a lot of suicidal people to go through. You have the option of doing the past, present and future tour a la Charles Dickens style, or the Jimmy Stewart style. I'm partial to the Jimmy Stewart style since I do have a lot of people on my roster tonight. Or do you want to see your childhood again?"

"Not particularly," said Martin. He thought of all the painful and embarrassing memories of failure. "My childhood was boring and rubbish."

"Don't knock it, Mister," she scolded. "I've seen a lot of rubbish childhoods and they're nothing like yours. Yours was a picnic with dancing teddy bears when you compare it with theirs. I'd say you came away relatively unscathed. You're a working man, no one hates you—"

"Ok. Can we get on with it?" Martin interrupted. "My landlord might come in at any moment, I'd rather get my...er...death over with."

"Such impatience," huffed Tabitha. "You're thirty-two. You should be taking this slowly. You're not fifteen. Oh God, the teenagers!" she exclaimed. She then winced as if she was reliving a bad memory. "I had such a hard time circa 1994 when I failed to convince that Kurt Cobain to keep living and bam! I've got One-hundred and fifty teenagers on my roster, all with guns and the Nirvana Unplugged CD on loop."

"Who?"

"Right, never mind," said Tabitha with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm showing my age. Listen Martin, do you want to see your alternate non-life? What your non-life would look like if you had never lived?"

"I'm sure the world would be all right," said Martin slowly. "I'm sort of rubbish at my life. I doubt would be missed."

Tabitha snorted in disbelief. "That's what they all say, or else I wouldn't be here, telling you and twenty other people 'hey! Don't stick that head into the oven, your mom loves you!' 'Step away from the ledge, your son will miss you!' Or 'put that aspirin away! You can't kill yourself like that!' Oops, I wasn't supposed say that about the aspirin."

"It's called paracetamol," said Martin, taking petty joy in correcting her. "And you talk a lot for an angel."

"Bethany, the other angel, she goes through her charges a lot quicker than me. It's her meaningful looks and soft words," Tabitha explained with a hint of envy and a lot of sarcasm. "Well, this is my style. I talk. I talk a lot."

"That's probably why you don't have any wings if this is how you go about saving people from themselves."

Tabitha patted Martin hard on the back. He winced.

"Cheeky!" she said. "The charge talks back. Your depression hasn't sucked all the spark of life out of you. There might be hope for me yet, ginger boy."


	3. Chapter 3

"So I'm in my own version of It's a Wonderful Life?" asked Martin, moving away from Tabitha. He didn't want her to touch him again. He could still feel the sting on his back. Didn't angels know their own strength?

"You could say that," said Tabitha, taking no notice of Martin's wincing. "Now, what do you want to do? Do you want to start with family or co-workers? You don't seem to have many friends, so we can skip them."

Martin rolled his eyes. "Oh, thank you. I'm sure that will save you time tonight."

"Damn right it will," replied Tabitha, ignoring his sarcasm. "So, which is it?"

Martin thought for a moment. He didn't like to think about his family, so MJN air would have to be first. "Co-workers."

"OK! Let's get started." She pulled out her Blackberry, scrolling through what Martin imagined to be Heaven's version of a Wikipedia page on him. The more she scrolled, the less pleased she looked. "Ooh, this won't be pretty. I'll have to put a bit more time into you. According to Heaven's database, you're more important than you look. Keep up the sarcasm. Your ridiculous pride is distracting you from your depression. Good. We will be seeing your first officer, Douglas, first."

Martin snorted. "I'm sure Douglas will go on fine without me. His smuggling and general rule-breaking will go on unheeded without me spoiling his fun."

"Don't be so sure, Martin," said Tabitha, putting away her Blackberry. "Whether you know it or not, you are an important and integral part of MJN Air."

A hollow laugh escaped from Martin. "Only because Carolyn doesn't pay me," he said, his hand fisting in his pocket. "I am the only pilot she could find who would fly for free."

"Yes, there's that," conceded Tabitha. She looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was six-thirty. "But we're wasting time. I have another three suicides on my roster tonight."

"I should be bothered that you're rushing through your job," said Martin. He felt slighted by the idea that Heaven sent him a guardian angel that was so lackadaisical about saving his life. "Apparently, I'm not that important if I'm just another tick on your list."

Tabitha sighed. "No, you are important." It was the first time Martin heard her say something gentle to him. She reached out to touch his shoulder and looked in his eyes. "I'm always impressed by the roles people play in other's lives. There are many ordinary people who matter a lot to someone. They are unknowing lynchpins in people's lives that hold things together without real together without realizing it."

Martin looked away. "Surely you're not describing me."

"No one ever believes me," said Tabitha. Her land left his shoulder as she looked up to the ceiling as though she was pleading to an invisible entity. Probably God. She looked at Martin and said, "Fine. I will show you the life of Douglas Richardson without his Captain. Ready?"

Martin looked around. "How are you going to do that? I mean...will there be fairy...dust? Is it like how it is in the movies? A bit of swooshing and things blurring a bit?"

Tabitha smirked at Martin. "Something like that."

She snapped her fingers and suddenly they were in a warehouse. It happened so quickly, it was like someone changed the channel on the telly. Martin looked around. It was the cargo loading area of Fitton Airfield. The cargo loading area was like a noisy warehouse during the day with various cabin crews of other airlines loading and transporting cardboard boxes and crates of the goods to be transported. Now there was an eerie quiet to the cavernous warehouse. It was mostly dark except for the small corner of the warehouse where a single florescent light was turned on to shine a spot light on two crouched figures. They were surrounded by fifty cardboard boxes that were filled with what looked like hour glasses. Martin looked at Tabitha.

"No fairy dust, I'm afraid," she said, walking past Martin expecting him to follow. "They can't hear us," she said, answering Martin's unspoken question. "They can't see us either so don't be such a coward and follow me."

As they approached the two figures, Martin realized it was Douglas and a dark-haired young man that he had never seen before. The young man might have been described as handsome if he didn't have that pinched suspicious expression that seemed to be permanently etched on his face. They were packing the boxes, adding bubble wrap and cotton to further secure and protect the hourglasses. Douglas looked haggard and weary as he carefully sealed one box with packing tape. The young man's mouth was set in a grim expression of determination while he packed each hour glass tightly in tissue paper and Styrofoam packing materials.

"What is Douglas doing?" whispered Martin. It looked like they shouldn't be here. Whatever Douglas was doing with this man, it was obvious that this was a covert operation.

"What Douglas is doing is making trouble," explained Tabitha, disapproval dripped from her voice. "Your first officer always was too concerned about cultivating an image, particularly that of a glamorous airline pilot." "Yes, he did lose his job at Air England for a bit of smuggling," conceded Martin.

Tabitha snorted. "A bit of smuggling? Smuggling silk kimonos sewn into his captain's uniform over a six-month period is not a bit of smuggling. I don't really need to bore you with the details. Besides, it's against my code of ethics to provide you blackmail material on your first officer in case you decide you won't kill yourself tonight."

Martin looked taken aback at such a suggestion. "I would never blackmail Douglas like that!"

"Maybe not," agreed Tabitha, "but you've got a bit of pettiness in you, Martin. I don't like blackmail, even if it's just over a tray of cheese. MJN Air cannot pay Douglas the current salary he has when he's flying with you since you are the only idiotic pilot who would fly for free—"

"But—"

"Martin, if you keep cutting me off, I will never move on to my next lost cause," interrupted Tabitha irritably. "As I was saying, Carolyn could not pay Douglas's going rate as a competent pilot and what he gets now is significantly less than what he gets now with you as a pilot. Douglas has expensive child support payments for his five children by two different wives, a Lexus and a condo that he cannot afford. He is living beyond his means, so he smuggles to supplement his income."

Tabitha contemptuously points to the young man. "That's where this little shit comes in. His name is Patrick, a fellow pilot with expensive taste and the lack of principles that goes with it"

Martin felt his stomach drop. He could tell from the way Tabitha said this that what Douglas was smuggling was much more dangerous than the usual contraband whiskey. "What is Douglas smuggling?"

"Whatever it is, it's certainly not sand in those hourglasses," Tabitha replied, disapproval dripping from her voice. She crossed her arms and nodded towards the two men who were oblivious to their presence, hinting to Martin that this was time to pay attention the scene in front of them.

"Patrick, may I ask who is our lucky patron is?" asked Douglas, still retaining some of his smooth sarcasm but with a considerable loss of its usual bite. "The one who has just paid MJN Air 20,000 pounds to fly to Germany? MJN Air normally charges £800 for a Cargo flight to Germany and the items are usually more valuable than the twenty boxes of hourglasses we're flying tomorrow."

"Douglas, we made an agreement," said Patrick, delicately rolling another hourglass in bubble wrap. "Twenty thousand pounds go to MJN Air for a ridiculously easy and short cargo flight, and an extra nine thousand pounds goes to you for keeping your mouth shut, helping me with these little errands and creating the necessary lies to keep Carolyn happy."

"Yes," replied Douglas, "I remember our agreement but this captain thinks that there's something suspicious about a small charter air dot flying what amounts to be only £200 worth of goods. What shall I say to custom officers when they ask why such an expensive flight to deliver an insignificant parcel that could be sent via airmail for a mere 100 quid?"

Patrick stopped what he was doing and got up. He stood very close to Douglas, invading his personal space in what was obviously supposed to be an intimidation tactic. His eyes didn't seem to blink. They seemed almost inhuman in that frozen expression predatory curiosity. Internally, Martin felt ashamed for Douglas as Douglas attempted to hide his flinching expression.

"You're a clever man, Douglas," said Patrick, his voice even, cold and controlled. "That's what I pay you for. I don't pay you to ask questions. I pay you to think of stories, explanations and excuses for things you know nothing about. Those were your words. You were trying to get an extra 100 quid for that service alone. Are you getting cold feet? Do you think I'm not a man of my word?"

"No," said Douglas flatly and firmly. "You've kept your word remarkably."

Patrick's gaze lingered on Douglas's. Slowly, by increments, Patrick's cold expression softened into one of bored satisfaction. "Good. Believe me when I say that ignorance is bliss in our work, especially when you need me to keep up your idiotic lifestyle, the posh car you can barely afford and your fifteen kids that you can't support—"

"I don't have fifteen kids," interrupted Douglas.

"That is beside the point," said Patrick. "Your debt load and your abhorrence of cheap, squishy foiled cheese in the flight deck mean that you have to do as I say. Camembert comes at a price, Douglas."

Douglas rolled his eyes. "Yes, but this is not quite what I had in mind. Maybe an odd case of expensive port, a few counterfeit Prada bags, but this? If I didn't know any better, I'd say that's not sand in those hourglasses."

"Why do you want to know now? You've been studiously disinterested in what we've been smuggling in until now," said Patrick. Patrick gave Douglas a look that Martin could only describe as shark-like. "Are you blackmailing me? Or do you want a bit of the sand for recreational use in your playground in Fitton? What is it, Douglas?"

Douglas tried to look stoically unruffled, but his wide eyed silence betrayed him. Patrick gave Douglas a condescendingly smug smile.

"Oh, I get it," sneered Patrick. "You just realized how deep you're into this. You're a small timer, a small fry, Douglas. You're a small time smuggler who got caught with sticky fingers in one of the larger airlines. Now no one will hire you. You've been reduced to flying for a mere pittance of what you're used to with an air dot that's run by an old bag, who can barely pay her bills. I've seen men like you, middle-aged with no life savings, used to a certain level of comfort they can't afford, men who live off debt and people's good graces."

The tension in the room was thick. Neither moved an inch. Martin hoped Douglas would come up with a witty retort. Anything was better than heartbreaking submission. Instead, Douglas picked up the packing tape off the floor. Crouching down to seal a box and averting his eyes, he asked, "How much cotton batting do we need again? We might run out soon."

Martin watched in stunned silence as Douglas and Patrick continued to pack the hourglasses into the boxes. Martin always thought Douglas sometimes pushed things where he shouldn't with his schemes, but he didn't imagine Douglas would be caught up in illegal drug trafficking. Martin was relieved to know that Douglas was not that sort of smuggler. He had never been so glad to learn that Douglas only aspired to small-time smuggling of benign luxury goods instead of illicit drugs.

"Tabitha, do Douglas and Patrick get caught?" asked Martin, dreading the obvious answer.

Tabitha's voice went quiet in a way Martin didn't like. "No, not during this smuggling trip, but it catches up with them. A year later, Douglas and Patrick were caught smuggling two million pounds worth of cocaine hidden in stuffed teddy bears."

"Oh God," whispered Martin in horror. "Don't tell me the next stop is us visiting Douglas in prison."

"I'm Afraid so, Captain."

"Do I have to see this? I promise not to top myself," pleaded Martin.

"It's against protocol to stop now. We're seeing this Jimmy Stewart thing through," said Tabitha apologetically. Then suddenly, she flashed him a smile that was too wide to be sincere. "Put on a brave face, Martin. Think of this as a painful band aid you need to rip off as quickly as possible. There's no point in delaying the inevitable. Besides, heaven doesn't pay me overtime to dither like this."

And with that, Tabitha and Martin disappeared with a pop! and left Patrick and Douglas to continue packing the cocaine-filled hourglasses late into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

With a POP! Tabitha and Martin appeared in a large, dingy room. The walls were grey and the room was filled with tables and bolted chairs. There were several men in grey prison jumpsuits, their feet shackled, talking with their visiting loved ones. Douglas was in the corner. There were bags under his eyes, his face was unshaven and his dirty hair was streaked with white and grey. His uniform looked a see too big and it hung awkwardly on his frame. The man in front of him was nearly unrecognizable from the hearty and arrogantly smug Douglas Richardson Martin had flown with for the past two years.

When Martin thought of Carolyn, he often thought of her as a sprightly ball of fierce energy. There was a certain go-get it posture of a proud and determined woman. The Carolyn before Martin was still proud. Her posture was erect. She held her head up high when she scanned the room, searching for Douglas amongst the masses of grey prison uniforms. But upon closer inspection as Carolyn walked towards Douglas, Tabitha and Martin, she smelled faintly of fried grease and there were food stains on her shirt. There was something dishevelled about her despite her proud stance. It hinted at long, tiring hours at an unrewarding job that chipped at her energy reserves.

When sat down across from Douglas, she continued her stiff posture. It was as though there were strings pulling her whole body taut and upright. She regarded him with a fixed expression of such cold disdain that Martin winced on Douglas's behalf. Douglas responded to the formidable woman in front of him by plastering on the most charming smile he could muster under her glare.

"Hello Carolyn, fancy seeing you here," greeted Douglas, attempting to sound like his usual jolly smug self, but failing miserably.

"Arthur sends his regards," Carolyn responded, her voice matching her stiff posture. "The boy has a true gift of forgiveness that I have never mastered. When I look at scum like you who have ruined my life and my business, I remember why it's prudent that I don't. Arthur has the luxury of forgiveness. He does not have to pay the legal bills associated with clearing my name as a co-conspirator of a drug-smuggling ring. Not to mention, I've lost all legal rights to run a charter airline company and I will never work for the British aviation sector again."

She glared at him, almost daring him to justify his actions. Instead, Douglas hung his head, looking at his thumbs. The silence hung between them thickly. Martin was tempted to say something to break the awful silence but he's seen the Jimmy Stewart film enough times to know that neither of them could hear him.

"How could you Douglas?" Carolyn asked finally. "I trusted you. Last week I sold GERTI for parts, at a much discounted rate too. My ex-husband offered a pittance more, but my self-preservation and damn pride wouldn't allow me to take it even if the extra 500 quid would have contributed nicely to our legal fees. Now Arthur works as a local shop boy at Tesco's and I've resorted to waitressing at the local Fox and Fiddle."

Douglas looked up, shocked. "That old dump?"

Carolyn frowned distastefully, as if she was holding back what she really thought. Martin had only seen that face when Carolyn dealt with a few choice passengers who that got the Knapp-Shappey special service.

"And now you're here in jail, facing felony charges. Was it worth it?" she asked, softly at first, then hardening when she repeated, "Was it worth it?"

"No, I'm afraid not," said Douglas. He sagged into his chair as if shrinking himself could make this nightmare disappear. But there was nothing but naked honestly when he looked at her and said "I'm very sorry. Carolyn, I will do my best to minimize any consequences that you suffer as a result of my...bad choices."

Carolyn snorted. "In a legal way, I hope. Perjury is still a criminal offense in court."

"No, I won't do that. The lies have failed me and they're frankly too much work. I'm quite sick of lying. Please believe me when I say…" he trailed off and looked away. Nothing was said while Douglas rubbed his eyes with his palm of his hand in a discreet attempt to hide the silent tears. It seemed like an uncomfortably eternity until Douglas was able to collected himself and look at Carolyn to say in a steady voice, "I'm truly sorry, Carolyn. I regret everything. Please believe me."

Douglas looked more contrite than Martin had ever seen him. His face was worn with grief. Though Martin would never admit it, he had always marvelled at Douglas's cleverness and smoothness. It was as if he was invincible. It was distinctly horrifying and sad to see him like this.

Carolyn face softened as she was caught off guard by the frankness of Douglas's response. She carefully searched his face suddenly the invisible strings holding Carolyn upright had been cut. Her shoulders relaxed and she slouched slightly in her chair. It was as though there was no energy left to hold in the anger any longer. All there was left was sad forgiveness.

She gave a tired sigh. "You've made a mess of it, Douglas. You stupid man. I should have known. I shouldn't have believed you. You were always too smooth for your own good. Now, if it's forgiveness you wanted, then you have it. And good luck to you. You will be eating tinned beans for a very long time if you ever get out of prison. Such is the fate of all who once worked at MJN Air because I stupidly trusted idiotic pilots with sticky fingers."

She got up from her uncomfortable chair.

"Now, we won't be seeing each other ever again." She held out her hand for Douglas to shake, which he did so weakly. "Goodbye, Douglas."

Carolyn left Douglas sitting there, his head in his hands with the almost inaudible sounds of sobbing emitting from him. For Martin, it felt like he was intruding in a private moment watching Douglas lose his composure because Martin knew Douglas would be mortified if he saw Martin witnessing him like this.

"Tabitha, what happens to Douglas?" asked Martin, dreading the answer already.

"His career as a pilot is over. His name is on a restricted list and his piloting license is permanently revoked. He will spend the rest of his life after prison in doing odd jobs, occasionally playing in a piano bar for a few hundred pounds a month. In another year he will succumb to his dormant alcohol addiction before dying penniless in a hospital a few years later.

"That's horrible," whispered Martin. "What about Carolyn?"

Tabitha smiled wryly with admiration for her. "Carolyn is made of sterner stuff. A true work horse, she is. Unlike Douglas, she's used to undignified work and swallows her pride, accordingly. Well, most of the time."

Martin smiled at that, slightly relieved to hear that. "So, we will be seeing her?"

"Of course," replied Tabitha easily. "This is the Jimmy Stewart tour after all. We're seeing all your co-workers. And after that, if you're still an idiot for emotional masochism, we'll see your family too."

Martin took one last look at Douglas, sitting there waiting for the guard to take him back to his cell. "Let's go," Martin said quietly. With that, Martin and Tabitha disappeared from the prison visiting area with a POP!


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: Thank you for still reading this. I would have struggled a lot more to gather the nerve to post this after months of sitting on it without your kind responses._

It was a homely but brightly lit little pub, one that Martin often passed by on his way to Fitton airfield, but he had never been inside. It was called the Fox and the Fiddle. The bar had sticky table tops with day-old rings of split bear scattered on the countertop of the bar. Many of the patrons were working class and middle-aged men. Tabitha and Martin saw Carolyn emerged from the kitchen, wearing a drab black uniform of black trousers and a black polo shirt with a cartoon fox on it. She was carrying a heavy plate of food in her hand, giving it to a slightly pudgy middle-aged woman who stared at her with expectant disdain.

Carolyn carefully put the plate in front of the lady. "Here you are madam. A pork pie with a side salad," said she with false cheerfulness.

The woman poked at her food in disappointment. "What is this?" she asked, pointing to the green salad.

Carolyn folded her hands in front of her in a prim manner. "It's a salad on the side, madam. Just as you asked," she said, using her special Knapp-Shappey service voice again. In Martin's experience, this never boded well for the customer.

"Yes, but it's touching my pie." complained the woman. "And when I say I want a salad on the side, I mean the dressing as well. I didn't want dressing on top of my salad. How am I supposed to lose weight if you dunderheads keep putting dressing on my salad? And what about these fried croutons? Nowhere on the menu did it say the croutons were fried. I assumed they were baked!"

Carolyn put her hands on her hips. "I'm sorry, but you should have made it clearer—"

"CLEARER? Clearer than salad on the side?! SABOTAGE!" cried the woman.

Martin winced at this exchange. If Carolyn ran this pub, this woman would have god-knows-what in her salad the next time she was served. In fact, she still might, if this patron ever came back again.

"With all due respect, but your Pork pie is at least 800 calories," explained Carolyn, tight lipped and gritting her teeth. "It is hardly the dressing that is making you fat. Or does lard pastry, low-grade fatty meat and 1000 mg of salt in your gravy make you float on air when you leave this establishment? Or! Or does it add bulk to your bottom, making you the fat cow that you are?"

"This is outrageous. I don't have to put up with this," said the woman. "I have been a loyal patron of this establishment for three long years."

Carolyn couldn't hold in her anger any longer. "I know! Do you think I haven't remembered two of those three long years? The pitiful tips, the high handed false criticism, the ridiculous nature of your very unreasonable demands. You are the most infuriating high maintenance, ninny of a customer I have ever had the displeasure to serve. And believe me, I ran a charter flight company that gave me an intimate knowledge of how unreasonable customer demands can be. And this constant pre-occupation with weight and our supposed sabotage of it because our gravy is pre-made with lard droppings and not organic sunflower oil, as you so dearly wished! Do we need to make a special batch of gravy out of sunflower oil, vegan beef bits and some lethal grade corn flour? And should we begin to make our pastry out of spelt flower too, in case you suddenly find yourself allergic to glutton and it's contributing to your weight gain?"

"You can't speak to me like this!" shrieked the woman.

"I can and I DID."

"I want to speak to the manager. I'll make sure you never serve in this establishment again!"

Carolyn threw in her towel. "Go ahead you fat cow! I'm tired of this thankless job anyway! I spend all day serving ungrateful customers like you, especially you who come in here every week to annoy me with your requests."

The manager came in, his face weary and tired. "Is there a problem here, madam?"

"Are you the manager?" demanded the woman.

"Aye, I am. What is the problem, miss?"

"This old woman here is sabotaging my meal."

The manager glanced at Carolyn, but Carolyn was unrepentant. He sighed. "Again, madam?"

"Yes, again. I suggest you fire her," she said, jabbing her fork at Carolyn. "She is a terrible waitress."

"I'll see what I can do about it, miss," replied the manager.

"It's Mrs. to you! Mrs. McEwen," corrected the woman. "I demand to be treated with respect. If you won't fire her, can you at least make sure I won't have to see her face when I eat my meal? Her ugliness puts me off my food."

"I have more creative ways to put you off your food," muttered Carolyn under her breath.

Mrs. McEwen's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

"Nothing!" said Carolyn.

The manager took a deep breath. "Carolyn, could I see you for a moment."

Carolyn nodded her head and followed the manager to the back of the pub and into the stock room. Martin and Tabitha followed. The stockroom was cramped with high shelves, filled with non-perishable food and cases of beer and spirits.

Carolyn cross her arms, her back straight with her head held high. Martin could see that Carolyn clearly thought she was within her rights to berate that customer. "Robert, THAT woman is impossible. Surely you won't take her word over mine."

Robert rubbed his face. "The same could be said about you! This is the fourth complaint we've had this month about your rudeness. And they were not all from Mrs. McEwen, I might add. There was Philip—"

"The sexist drunkard"

"-and the Hatfields"

"Who cannot control their bratty children."

"—Mr. Gordon"

"Who frequently vandalizes the men's lavatory with his urine."

"—Bradley Harper"

"A hooligan who vandalizes our tables with ketchup and black markers that I have to spend extra hours cleaning off."

"Our loyal Mr. Smith-"

"He steals the packets of sweeteners, our napkins and occasionally, a bottle of brown sauce-"

"Carolyn, listen to me! This is not acceptable. I run a pub. Difficult patrons are a given, especially when you ply them with alcohol and fatty food," cried Robert, raising his voice in frustration. He closed his eyes and ruffled the little hair he had on his head. "Carolyn, I'm afraid I will have to let you go."

"You're sacking me?" asked Carolyn, astonished.

"Yes, I am," said Robert, his voice low and calm now that he didn't have to argue with Carolyn. "You can't say you're surprised. This has been an ongoing issue for two years now, the whole time you've worked here. You don't have any patience for people and your high-handed behaviour towards the staff makes the working environment untenable. I've kept you here because you are one of the most punctual and reliable waitresses I have, especially when most waitresses need a flexible schedule to work around their school work or their children."

Carolyn scoffed. "You mean I am an old woman who has all the time in the world to keep a job such as this."

Annoyed, Robert crossed his arms. "I didn't mean it like that. You will have another two weeks, Carolyn. That will give me some to find another waitress to replace you."

Carolyn glared at Robert for a moment before she sighed in resignation. "Fine. I can't say I'm surprised. I'm been tired of this job anyway. I'm sure I can find something suitable in those two weeks."

"Good luck Carolyn," said Robert. He then sheepishly added, "By the way, Mr. Gordon made a mess of the toilets again. If you please..."

Carolyn grabbed the mop and bucket with force. "With pleasure, Robert. I will get to it," she said, barely keeping the anger from her polite words.

With that, Carolyn and Robert exited the storage room. Martin sat down on a box of tinned peas and rubbed his eyes. Does this world get any better? His co-workers were having their lives ruined because he won't fly for free? Tabitha sat down across from him on a low step stool.

"Tabitha, where are we going next?" asked Martin.

"We're visiting the Shappey's for Christmas Eve dinner," replied Tabitha.

Martin swallowed. He felt like he was being smited for thinking that this tour could not get any worse.

Tabitha clapped her hand hard on his back. "Yeah, I know. We always need to visit at least one Christmas dinner on this tour, usually the most pitiful and depressing one to hammer into your thick skull that it's a bad idea to kill yourself. Call it God's tough love."

"Is there no way to get off this tour? I really promise to not top myself," pleaded Martin.

Tabitha rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. I never take the word of a suicidal charge. You might not kill yourself tonight, but you may do it tomorrow or next year. The point of going through the whole trouble of setting up this grand tour of this alternate Martin Crieff-free world is to convince you to never kill yourself. We're going through the whole painful exercise, whether you like it or not."

Martin sighed. "Fine. Let's go have Christmas dinner with Carolyn and Arthur. These peas are uncomfortable to sit on."

Tabitha grinned. "That's the spirit, Martin. Suffer through it."

With that, they left the dark storage room with a POP! to have dinner with the Shappeys.


	6. Chapter 6

Author notes: Thank you for kind comments. It helps me to keep going when I know I'm not writing into the void in a small fandom. The fic is finished but it's tough editing it even with the kindest comments of my beta, pb-jwaffles, who I owe a lot of thanks to.

* * *

To call the current Shappey residence a flat was a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like a sitting room with a kitchen and bathroom attached. It reminded Martin of his own flat, if only slightly bigger. Then again, Martin lived on his own. Carolyn and Arthur shared this room. There was one tiny bed in the corner that looked too small for Carolyn and Arthur to share comfortably. A small television was opposite the bed. In the middle of the room was the small pull out table where Carolyn and Arthur likely had dinner. There was a pile of bills, most of them from a legal firm. Even with the dearth of furniture, the flat felt cramped and small. The model aeroplanes, the Disney posters, Muppet Babies toys and the colourful fairy lights that bordered the ceiling only contributed to the claustrophobic feel of the room while at the same time, added a cosy warmth that had Arthur written all over it. Martin imagined that depending on Carolyn's mood, Arthur's decorative touches were either a source of insanity or comfort. It was likely both at the same time.

"Welcome to Chateau Shappey," deadpanned Tabitha. "Living poorly since 2009."

"Where are we?" asked Martin, though he was a little afraid of the answer. He peered out the window and was relieved to find that it wasn't part of a seedy neighbourhood. The streets were quiet and Martin saw no signs of dubious cars or drug addicts.

"Coven Street," replied Tabitha.

"Coven Street? But that's just a few blocks from where I live. That means this is a town house flat near the Agricultural College."

"Correct! Doesn't that make you feel a bit better?" said Tabitha with a levity was beginning to grate on Martin's nerves. But he knew it was no use to say anything about it. Years of flying with Douglas Richardson had taught him that.

"That Carolyn and Arthur are living as shabbily as I do?" Martin looked around. There wasn't the smell of urine or any tell-tale rat traps littering the flat. "It could be worse."

"No doubt about that," agreed Tabitha.

It was just then that Arthur came into the flat, in the garish mustard and green uniform of one of the local supermarket chains. He had two large shopping bags in his hands and he was whistling what sounded like a mangled version of the theme to The Muppet Christmas Carol. Martin had never realized how much of a Muppets fan Arthur was.

They watched Arthur cheerfully put away his food, food that made Martin internally wince. There were nearly rotted discounted vegetables wrapped in plastic, a bottle of fizzy pop and tiny tins of meat that looked suspiciously like dog food, a packet of instant powdered gravy and a large box of corn starch. Apparently, Arthur's food can only be more unpredictably surprising now that Carolyn and Arthur were living so poorly.

They watched silently as Arthur cooked. He was making some kind of stew that had a bit of everything in it: three tins of mystery meat, a large tin of tomatoes, some wilted celery and ripe apples, onions and a lot of corn starch to thicken the stew. To Martin's horror, Arthur added a large amount of red food colouring that gave the stew a sickly hue.

Carolyn came in just as Arthur was finishing the stew.

"Hello mum!" cried out Arthur cheerfully. "I'm making kitchen sink stew."

"Dear God," muttered Carolyn. "Again?"

"I found some really nice celery..." said Arthur. He poked the celery that was limp and an unsightly shade of slime yellow. "Well, it's not nice nice, but at a good price. Want to have a bit? It's almost done."

"No thank you, Arthur." Carolyn surveyed the food Arthur bought and frowned. "Arthur, didn't I tell you to not buy any meat in tiny tins again? Please tell me you did not put any of it in the kitchen sink stew."

"It's not in the kitchen sink stew," Arthur said tonelessly, his face betraying his lie.

"Arthur…." began Carolyn, drawing out the vowels in his name in an unsuccessful attempt to calm herself. "Just because we gave up Snoopadoo for adoption doesn't mean we now have to eat her food. How many times must I tell you, tiny tins of meat are not meant for human consumption?"

"But the tins look so cheerful. It can't be that bad mum if the dogs look so happy on the tin," protested Arthur. "I've already put three tins of that meat into the kitchen sink stew. It will be good, I promise! We can add a bit of gravy mix to counter the off taste."

Carolyn took a deep breath. "Dear boy of mine, I believe that no amount of gravy mix will ever counter the taste of dog food in our stew."

"But I already bought loads of the tins. They were on discount," explained Arthur, as though it would make the purchase more forgivable. "And I already spent this week's food budget."

Carolyn collapsed on the fold-out chair. It seemed that the disastrous stew was the straw that broke the camel's back. Her strength had failed her as she held her head in her hands. Martin had never seen her this close to tears as he did now. It was a bit of a horrific sight to Martin.

"Arthur," she said, "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"It can't be that bad, mum," Arthur said, abandoning the stew. He sat down next to his mother and patted her back with his most reassuring smile. "There's no need to cry. I'm sure we can work something out."

"No, you don't understand Arthur," Carolyn continued, looking up at Arthur. "I've just been sacked from the Fox and Fiddle. It was that awful Mrs McEwen. Her stupid dietary diatribe lost me my job. Robert has just given me two weeks' notice to find another job."

"Oh," said Arthur, his cheerful smile faltering. "Well, I can support us for now. I mean, I could be promoted next week if I work really hard in the storage and loading area. I didn`t make a mistake today."

"Arthur, you are barely making above minimum wage," reminded Carolyn. "Unless I find another job by next month, we won't be able to pay the rent. Our landlord is already annoyed with us for being late on our payments for the past six months. I can't imagine what he would do once we miss a rent payment for the first time next year."

"I`ll work extra hours then," Arthur quickly interjected. "It's really not a problem. Tuesday is milk day. There are always loads of milk crates to unload. I could get a few extra quid here and there. It won't be so bad."

"Arthur, you are already working forty hours a week. I doubt the shop will let you work any overtime when there is no need to."

"We'll think of something, mum," said Arthur. He got up to serve the stew, trying to maintain his cheerfulness, but Martin could tell Arthur was quite upset. He wasn't humming a Muppet's song or made any attempt to decorate the soup he had just ladled into two large bowls. Carolyn tried to hide her sniffle and wiped her tears in a futile attempt to pull herself together.

Arthur set the stew down in front of her on the table and gave her a hug. "Cheer up, mum. It's Christmas Eve. It's not right to be sad during Christmas when we've got each other."

"I've been such an old fool. I should have been more suspicious about Douglas and Patrick's special clients. Special clients," Carolyn bitterly spat out, now preferring anger over hopelessness. Anger made her sit up straighter. "That's what you get for being a wilfully ignorant fool. The last of our savings have gone to the lawyers. Those money grubbing lawyers with their weak words while my savings and everything I worked for goes up in flames."

"Don't talk like that, mum," Arthur said quietly. "It wasn't your fault. Things can only get better now that they are so bad. I promise. I`ll get an extra job, we can make next month's rent. Please stop crying mum. I've cooked a lot of stew. It will last us at least three days."

"Dear God," said Carolyn. The extra stew obviously didn't make Carolyn feel any better. Martin didn't blame her. He shuddered when he thought of the last time Arthur made kitchen sink stew and he couldn't imagine how vile the stew must be under Carolyn and Arthur's budget constraints.

"Do I need to know what happens to Carolyn and Arthur?" asked Martin, hoping with all his might that the tour of this alternate life was about to end.

"It's not as bad as it could be. Carolyn's expensive lawyers manage to clear her of the charges, but like Carolyn says, the legal fees have eaten away all of their savings earned from Douglas and Patrick's dubious clients. They will live most of their life in relative poverty. Carolyn had set up a secret trust fund for Arthur that was to go towards funding Arthur starting a sweets shop after she died. It was a secret dream of Arthur's to have a sweet shop and Carolyn would have found a buyer who could manage the shop while Arthur worked as a shop keeper. But now that fund has gone to lawyers and Arthur has no future beyond menial labour for the rest of his life."

"That`s horrible," said Martin quietly. "Not as horrible as Douglas's fate, but it's utterly intolerable that this has happened to MJN Air."

Martin watched Carolyn and Arthur quietly eat their stew. Carolyn couldn't manage more than a few sips before giving up. She pushed her bowl away. Arthur patted his mother's back and attempted to hug her, promising to make the stew better next time. Carolyn should be making a sharp remark about Arthur's cooking skills.

Instead, she stared across the room, at no point in particular like people do when they're overwhelmed by their own thoughts. He recognised that look. He often saw it when he looked in the mirror on the mornings when he didn't have enough money for rent. Martin imagined Carolyn was thinking 'dear god, how are we going to survive?' It wasn't right that Carolyn should have that helpless look now. Carolyn should be indomitable. Suddenly, Martin wanted to get off this tour of his alternate non-life. But with the way Tabitha was tapping on her blackberry, he knew that there was more misery to be seen.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This was the toughest chapter to write. So I hope it goes over alright. Hope you all enjoy it and thanks for all your encouragement and kind comments.

* * *

Tabitha put her hand on his arm. "Martin, we have to move onto your family."

"No, not my family," said Martin, closing his eyes, as if in doing so will wish away the scene in front of him. "I've seen enough. I can't take any more of this bleakness. I'll take your word that I'm not a waste of air and I'll just be happy with my mere existence as a poorly trained pilot, living out my mediocre existence."

Tabitha tilted her head. "That's not the response I was hoping for." She tugged on his arm. "We're only half way through this tour and there's no time to waste."

Martin wrenched his arm away from Tabitha. "No. Take me back home. I'll promise not to kill myself and you can have your wings."

Tabitha frowned. "That's not how it works. We have to go through with this tour until the end and you're supposed to feel uplifted and happy to be alive. You don't look very happy to return to your life. You make it sound like a prison sentence. In no time, you'll slide into another depression and one of my colleagues will have to do this tour all over again with you. And trust me, the people upstairs don't like the extra paperwork."

"Paperwork," repeated Martin, shaking his head.

"It's only Caitlin, Simon and your mother we have left to visit. It won't be so terrible. They're not as messed up as your friends at MJN Air. We can fast-forward some scenes if you don't them."

The urgency in Tabitha's voice made Martin more obstinate. He promised he wasn't going to kill himself. What more did she want from him? She was selfish and conniving like Douglas. And like Douglas, there was something she wanted out of him.

"I know what this is about," said Martin. "This is about your wings. I'm guessing that if I don't finish this tour with the desire to live my life, you won't get your wings?"

Her sullen lack of response was the confirmation Martin needed. "Unbelievable. You're just as incompetent as the rest. You just want a short cut to get your bloody wings at my expense. God, even the afterlife will be rubbish with the same amount of cronyism, sloppy work ethic and dubious rule-breaking. You've had twenty-three go's at your Wings Test and you're hoping I'm the lucky 24th soul that will buy into this—this idea that my life is jolly good if only I learned to love myself."

"I'm very bad at this Guardian Angel thing but I wouldn't do it unless I honestly believed that every one of the souls I've been put in charge of is important to the universe," said Tabitha, her voice taking on a kind tone to Martin that was in contrast with the impatient urgency she showed him earlier. "What would the world be like without ordinary, underachieving men like you? You are one of the little voices of reason that holds companies, families and people together. We need millions of people like you to keep the crazy, reckless and mindless people from destroying the world."

"But is that all I'm good for?" asked Martin. "I don't particularly like the idea of living my life as the glue that holds everything together and gets ignored. I'm a mediocre pilot willing to fly for free. Is that my purpose in life? To fly for free so that Carolyn and Arthur don't starve and Douglas can avoid going to prison for being a greedy idiot? I think I understand perfectly. Everyone has a function. I know that now. And when I'm no longer fulfilling what I was put here on Earth to do, all that I ask is that you let me disappear peacefully."

"Martin, I can't let you do this," said Tabitha.

"Why not? You did your job properly. I won't ever top myself."

"You're missing the point of this exercise!" said Tabitha, finally losing the tenuous hold she had on her patience. "Martin, there is more to life than being useful and accomplished. Whether you know it or not, you're very lucky. You're loved and liked unconditionally by a lot of people and they will continue to do so not because you're useful, but because you're a good man."

Martin rolled his eyes. "Now you're going to give me some greeting card clichés about how life is about being loved."

"I'm deeply offended. I speak in anything but clichés, especially those greeting cards." She let out a visible shudder. "Please Martin. You're doing no one any favours living a half-life."

Martin said nothing.

"Alright, I see that I've been going about this the wrong way…." said Tabitha, breaking through his brief reverie. He found her looking at him steadily like he was a puzzle to be solved. Tabitha had a crafty look that Martin didn't like. It resembled Douglas's when he was about to pull a prank on Martin to embarrass him. A small smile formed on her face. "A near death experience is what you need."

"Wh...what?"

Her smile grew bigger. "That's right, a near death experience! Why didn't I think of this earlier? I'll set up an accident. Don't worry, I won't permanently maim you—"

"You…you can't be serious," sputtered Martin.

"This way, you'll see how important you are when people surround your hospital bed."

"Hospital bed?! You can't do that!"

"It's quite obvious that the bureaucratic idiots in heaven and I who run these Jimmy Stewart tours will never convince you how much you are loved and valued. A near death experience is what you need."

"What? That makes absolutely no sense. You can't do that," said Martin, not wanting to believe what he was hearing. He felt the colour drain from his face and he tried his best to keep his voice calm even though the hairs on his neck were standing on end. "It's not very angel-like. It's not in your job description to cause bodily harm to those you want to save from committing suicide. That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard."

"Martin, you are the voice of reason who tries to keep reckless angels from like me from doing stupid things, but I will do this stupid thing because I will also be doing humanity a favour since the guys upstairs have plans for you. They're not grand plans. I mean you're not going to be like Moses or anything like that, but smaller plans that will benefit those in your itty bitty life. In heaven, we're all about interconnectedness and harmony and your premature death will be like a bum note that we could do without. "

"But I already told you I won't kill myself!" He slowly stepped away from Tabitha. He half wondered if there was an emergency exit somewhere. God couldn't be so cruel as to not provide an emergency exit for those poor souls who ended up with demented and unfit guardian angels.

"You'll be much more effective in God's plans if you have the right attitude," she continued as though he didn't say anything. "Right now, you're not getting it through your thick skull that you're a good man and you're good enough as you are. And I'm not saying this only because I want wings but because I honestly think the world would be a better place with you in it."

"I don't care!" yelled Martin. "Just snap your fingers and do that swooshing thing and take me home. I really don't want to be here anymore. I'll be good. And I really, really, really want to live! I'll do my pilot thing like you asked and…please, I beg of you!"

There was a long pause. Martin tried his best to calm down but his quickened breath and his sweaty hands told him that it was a losing battle. Tabitha glared at him, as though her fierce look will telepathically force him to cede to her will.

Finally, Tabitha rolled her eyes and sighed. "Fine," she said, pulling out her Blackberry and rapidly started typing something. Then, with the same swooshing sound, the forlorn scene in front of them disappeared, like when someone shakes an etch-a-sketch to erase a picture. In the next moment, they were back in Martin's flat. The same spilt bottle of pills was on the floor. It seemed like ages ago that he seriously considered killing himself.

Martin turned to Tabitha, not quite believing she'd cede to his wishes so easily. He thought he would have bargain for something like he would with Douglas to get what he wanted. But her face betrayed nothing. She held out her hand for him to shake. He shook it.

"I apologize, Martin," said Tabitha. "It was wrong of me to insist that you live your life happily when you obviously can't."

"Does this mean you won't get your wings?" he asked.

"No," replied Tabitha. "I won't. But I have a lot of people to go through tonight. I'm bound to get someone to be all Jiminy Cricket about their life. I've been trying for twenty years. But at least you're determined to live tonight. I can be grateful for that."

Martin nodded. "I hope that you'll get your wings soon. I know what it's like to fail. I'm sorry I couldn't get you your wings."

"No problem. It's to be expected," said Tabitha. She looked at her Blackberry. "By the way, Christmas is coming up soon. I'm sure there are some shops still open, maybe a local drug store where you can get some cheap boxed chocolates. If you hurry, you can get there before closing time. What do you say about that?"

"That's a good idea," replied Martin. "Christmas Eve shopping is always such a hassle. I think I can get some of the Christmas shopping done tonight."

Tabitha looked at her watch. "You better hurry. The shops close at 9pm and it's 8:20 now."

Martin checked his watch. "You're right. I better get going."

He put his coat on, fidgeting with the tricky zipper that sometimes refused to zip up. He gave up on the zipper and put on his scarf and hat. If he hurried, he could catch the next bus that, which would take him to the nearest Boots in ten minutes flat. It would give him a good half hour to do a bit of shopping.

He hastily shook Tabitha's hand. "It's been nice meeting you. Good luck on getting those wings!" he called out. He ran out the door and down the stairs to the front entrance of the flat.

Unfortunately, the front entrance was icy and no one had bothered to salt or shovel the steps. Martin slipped and before he knew it, a sharp pain in his head blotted out everything as he lost consciousness.


End file.
